Shadows Cast by Stars

down into her soul. She shuffles to one side to make room for me to sit down, then takes up her basket again, working a new strip of dyed cedar into the pattern. “I knew you were coming,” she says. “Madda’s my auntie. I live with her.” She looks at Paul and purses her lips. “I see Avalon’s got her hooks into your brother already.”

Paul is grinning from ear to ear as Avalon laughs at something he said. “Corridor girls never really noticed Paul,” I say. My gut tightens into a knot.

“Corridor girls.” Helen snorts. “If the rest are like her, he should consider himself lucky. I’m sorry you had to leave your home behind, though,” she adds quickly. “Was it hard? Leaving?”

I don’t reply, because a lump has formed in my throat, hard and raw and threatening.

Helen nods. “Sorry. Dumb question. I’ve never been there, you know, though I’ve heard a lot about it.” She inspects her basket and picks up another strand of cedar.

I sit down beside her. “That’s going to be a good basket. Your weaving is tighter than mine.”

Helen looks up. “Oh, you weave?”

“Yes. My mother taught me.”

“Here.” She holds the basket out to me. I take it, along with a thread of blackened cedar, and work it in and out of the spokes. Helen smiles. “Madda’s going to like that you’re good with your hands.”

I’m about to ask why that would be, when someone at the far end of the street whistles. A dozen or so men emerge from the forest. They’re all wearing packs on their backs, and most have belts of ammunition hanging from their hips. Most also carry rifles. Band men.

Helen takes the basket back from me. “They were out at the boundary, at the south end of the Island,” she says as she stands. “I’ve got to go. If Madda comes here looking for me, tell her I’ve gone to back to the cottage, okay?”

“Okay,” I say, but Helen doesn’t hear my reply. She’s already jumped off the porch, rushing away in the opposite direction. The Band men don’t even notice her. A man with a vicious scar cutting across his face leads the men up to the store. He thumps his way up the steps and goes inside. The others follow, fierce and grim and dirty, though now that they’re closer, I see a couple aren’t much older than I am.

One by one they go into the store, except for the last in the line, a boy about my age. He has thick auburn hair, and hovering just behind his shoulder is a kingfisher cast in shadow. He looks at Avalon in the truck before shifting his gaze to Paul, and then to me. His eyes are the color of ash. He looks like he’s about to say something to me, but before he can, the door creaks open and a stout boy leans out. “Henry wants you in here. Now.”

The auburn-haired boy casts a half-smile in my direction, as if he’d rather stay, before ducking inside.

“Gotta go,” Avalon says, pushing her door open suddenly, forcing Paul to jump out of the way. She runs up the stairs and into the store without another word.

Paul scratches his head. “What was that all about?”

“Don’t know.” But I want to, despite myself. It’s not just Avalon’s reaction or that our father’s inside the store with all the Band men-it’s that boy, the one with the kingfisher shade. I’ve seen him before. I don’t know where, but I feel like I know him.

Paul shakes his head as I creep up the steps to press my ear against the door, in hopes of hearing something- anything. “You could just go inside, you know.” He yawns. “What are they going to do? Kick you out?”

I’m trying to find a smart reply when the door opens. I jump back as my father steps out. He gives me a funny look. “What are you doing there, Cass? Eavesdropping? You know what they say about curiosity, right?” He takes me by the shoulder and steers me back toward the truck. “In you get. You too, Paulie. We’ve got a house to go see.”

“Don’t we need our driver?” I ask as I shuffle along the hot vinyl seat.

“Nope.” My father grins as Paul climbs in beside me and slams the door shut. “The truck’s ours. And just wait until we get to the house! I know you didn’t want to leave, Cass, but trust me-things are going to be good here. You’ll see.”

I want to believe him. I want to believe him with all my heart. But good things don’t happen to people like us, and so my heart just hurts instead.

CHAPTER FIVE

Something changes as we head out of town. My father drives with one hand on the wheel, steering with careless ease. His other hand dangles out the window, tapping the door of the truck as he whistles “Alouette.”

Paul can’t help himself and starts to sing.

“Alouette, gentille Alouette,

Alouette, je te plumerai!”

Our French is more patois than pure, but it marks us as what we are: Metis. Once the children of the coureurs de bois and their Indian wives of convenience, we are now just what the name means: mixed. Half-breeds. Not red enough to be red, and not white enough to be white. We don’t have a native tongue. Our myths are a curious twist of European tales and plains folklore, and never do we dance until we become one with the spirit world. We jig instead, hopping and skipping to fiddle and spoons.

The truck rumbles past house after dilapidated house. “We’re looking for a big rock with a petroglyph carved into it,” my father says.

Paul spots it first. “There!” he says as we whiz by the granite boulder jutting out from the forest.

A cloud of dust surrounds us as my father slams on the brakes, throws the truck into reverse, and parks by a driveway running downhill into the trees. “You two wait here for a minute,” he says between coughs. “I’m going to check things out.” He hops out and marches off.

I slide out to stare at the rock. The petroglyph is a raven, carved deep into the granite, with outspread wings and an open beak reaching toward a circle that I think must be the moon. With my eyes closed, I set my hand on the raven and trace its ridges with my fingertips. Memory threatens to wash over me. Ravens, always ravens. They follow me everywhere, laughing at the girl who has no shade, no spirit animal, taunting me, whispering that if I follow, they can show me where my soul is hidden.

Paul’s raven is the lone exception. He has never spoken to me, but to Paul? Yes, I think my brother has heard the trickster’s lies.

Paul pulls my hand away from the granite. “Not now. Not with Dad around.”

He’s right, but it would be so easy just to slip away, surrounded by the thick, dark forest of fir. I open my eyes. Beyond the trees, the lake is a sheet of quicksilver, so bright it blinds me. Surely I would be safe here. Surely I could cross and find my way back.

But a breeze ruffles the hair at the base of my neck, reminding me that I’m only a moment away from spirit taking hold of me and using me as it chooses, so I hold tight to my brother’s hand until the raven releases its grasp on me.

It’s not long before my father returns and we pile into the truck again. Neither Paul nor I mention the raven.

The truck lumbers down the steep driveway, and when the house comes into view, I wince. It’s in shambles. Glass is missing from several of the upstairs windows and the roof is blanketed with a thick coat of fir needles. Who knows what lurks underneath? Paul eyes it, knowing that my father will have him up there tomorrow to see what needs to be repaired.

Paul jumps out once the truck groans to a halt, and pushes open the door to the woodshed. A raccoon darts past him, skittering away into the bush. Paul laughs, but then the acrid scent left behind by the raccoon wafts out. This is my home, it says. Trespassers will not be tolerated.

Paul’s laughter fades. My family doesn’t take omens lightly.

My father draws a deep breath, then nudges me. “Go see what we’re dealing with inside, Cass,” he says. “Paul and I will start unloading.”

A path runs around one side of the house, leading to a door that’s stuck fast, its hinges rusted shut long ago. I